Wind Up Soldier
by Celestra
Summary: Everyone has an experience that makes them turn out the way they are. This was Dink Meeker's.


**Wind-Up Soldier**

By Celestra (AKA El S)

A/N: Originally an assignment for my English class, but I figured it was good enough to post. Dink Meeker is just so cool, I couldn't resist. If you're interested, I got about a 94 overall on this project.. coming from my stringent teacher, that's pretty good ;)

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo ooooooooooooooo

Most Thirds will stay as the third child until the day they die. Not me.

I'm not a Third anymore because when one child is plucked from their earthly

boundaries and only two remain, it makes no sense to be referred to as a 'Third' any longer.

My real name is Daniel Yitzchak Meekerman, but I have forgotten what it's like to go

by any name but Dink Meeker.

You would think that by being a Third, there would be a severe absence of love in my

life. But I have never felt anything _but_ love from my wonderful brother, Yosef, and my equally

fantastic sister, Tzipporah (or Tzippy, as we called her).

Yosef was born four years before me. He had such a high IQ that he was given a

monitor, although they took it out when they realized Yosef had no application whatsoever

and was much more interested in having fun and living normally.

Tzippy was born three years later with the sweetest disposition and most open nature

you could ask for, despite her childish ways. She fared little better – she was also credited

with an astonishing IQ, but she was born with a heart ailment, so she was forfeited her

monitor, and later, her life.

So my birth was authorized, and I came into being a year later. Although being

considered a genius and plagued with a monitor had its difficulties, the first seven years of my

life were happy and carefree. Many a person detected Yosef's amiable, fun-loving nature

within me.

Like Yosef, I had much love for games. Though I knew that as a Third I had a duty

to be studious for the people watching over me, I indulged on them as often as I could – that

is, until that fateful day which left deep wounds within my core.

It was one of those golden May afternoons. Tzippy, Yosef, and I were

playing tag in the expansive tree-filled grounds outside our home in Alden, New

York. Yosef was perched in a tree to escape Tzippy's attempts to catch him while I

merely ran circles around her, taunting her in a friendly, brotherly way.

Tzippy, amused though she was at some of my more creative jibes, protested,

saying she was too tired to continue. I was not to be satisfied by this response and I continued

to poke fun at her. Knowing she could never pass up a challenge, I dared her to

catch me. Obviously, she knew I was purposely goading her, but sweet as she was, she

decided to humor me. She put forth such effort that she almost caught me, but I darted and

dashed and laughed at her frustrations.

Suddenly, she collapsed in a heap on the ground, breathing in the raspy way

the dying sometimes do. She croaked my name, asking for a doctor and complaining that her

chest was constricted.

I laughed lightly, unconcerned, and told her she would have to catch me fairly rather

than trying to trick me.

Yosef scaled down his tree, voicing his opinion that he thought something might really

be wrong.

I scoffed, believing it to be nothing more than one of Tzippy's little jokes.

Tzippy's body started to be wracked with spasms, and though she tried to

speak, no sound came. Worry lines creased Yosef's face, and he commanded me to get

someone NOW.

Yosef looked more serious than I have ever seen him, and he shoved me towards the

house. I stumbled, but righted myself and took off running towards our home, not realizing

my last image of Tzippy would be of her writhing on the ground.

I tried to get help as fast as I could, I really did. The paramedics came and did their

best, but Tzippy was too far gone to save. What's worse is that everyone knew that it was my

moment of hesitation that cost Tzippy her life, but they never said anything. If only they had

said something - mentioned it off-handedly - screamed at me for my childish, perilous

doubt - I could have screamed along as well, "It was my fault! I know it was my fault! Dear

God, I'm sorry! Tzippy, I've killed you but I love you and it hurts and I need you back!"

But instead there was that oppressive silence, interwoven with the mournful sobs of

my parents and Yosef and their mantra that it was an unpreventable accident. So I cried for

the loss of my sister and I cried for the unbelievable guilt that I tried to let out healthily. But it

was always stifled.

Shortly afterwards, they removed my monitor.I was certain this had to do with my

hand in Tzippy's demise and that they wanted to see what I would do. I assumed they wanted

me to process what was happening around me in such a way that I could stay the same:

innocent to a point, strong, and thirsting for the normal childhood that would allow me to play

guilt-free. But I reacted strongly to this kind of attempted manipulation, and I vowed to do the

opposite for a multitude of reasons, besides just not wanting to play into the hands of those

who authorized my birth for the sole purpose of being their slave.

I knew my playing childish games were one of the reasons Tzippy was gone. So, I

decided to grow up and never take that same risk again. It wasn't a conscious decision; more

like a gradual change. First I stopped playing with Yosef so much. Then I began to joke less

and less. And finally, if one wanted to find me, they knew only to look towards my desk. There

I would be, working hard with all my energy while wrinkles around my serious

eyes betrayed my seemingly youthful fervor.

Unfortunately, I miscalculated the IF's intentions with the result of once more being

one of the pawns in their carefully orchestrated games. How was I to know this was the exact

sort of reaction they were looking for? They didn't want me to manage the impossible and

remain the same – they wanted me to harden so I would become that someone they needed

who could grow up on command and become hard-working, dedicated, and serious enough for

their devices.

I thought of this sort of manipulation as the worst kind – I thought I was in control of

what I was doing when really, they were still in the background, carefully winding me up so I

would head in the direction they wanted me to without ever really seeming to do so.

Yosef was not happy with the turn I took. While the thought of his baby sister gone

forever was not a happy one, the idea of losing his little brother to his inner demons was by

no means more acceptable. It was always his philosophy that kids should be allowed to live

normally, and that the IF were twisted in their methods. Although I didn't think it was possible

to go back to the way I was before, he would plead and plead, so I decided to humor him by

playing ball with him one day. It wasn't all that bad – I missed the feeling of a simpler life and

there was something about any game that brought out a playful spark in me. I opened up and

accepted the simple pleasure for the time being. Yosef was just teaching me the finer points of

dribbling a basketball when _he_ came.

There was just something I didn't like about Colonel Graff, even at first glance. He was

authoritative, yes, but I would expect that from any IF member. It was more in the way that

he flaunted his authority, like showing off a favorite piece of art – openly informing my

parents that I belonged to the government since the authorization of my birth, and telling me

that although I could refuse, he would still do everything in his power to try and make me

come.

Graff took me aside and told me what was expected of me. I recoiled from his

attitude, from his ideal that since they gave me permission to live, I was theirs to toy with

however they wanted. And I was disgusted that they wanted me to train for battle before I

even turned nine. Nine! What kind of soldiers would nine year olds make? And from what I

gathered, there were others even younger than me.

But even as I started to tell him no, the feeble imitation of choice evaporated. He

threatened to make knowledge of the circumstances surrounding Tzippy's death public. I tried

to tell him I wanted him to, that I needed people to know so that I could suffer my due guilt,

but he mentioned how a lot of people would find a Third's role _interesting_ in this kind of

situation. Instantly I knew that if he did, Thirds everywhere would suffer because of me and a

stupid prejudice stating that people who flout the population laws should be anywhere from

condemned to lynched.

Worse still, Graff went on to say that without soldiers to prepare for the coming

bugger war, people like Yosef would be hurt. His specific mention of Yosef was significant in

the way that it had two meanings – either the buggers might get him, or the IF would because

of my unwillingness to let them use me.

It was then that I realized my life would never have any semblance of self-control

again. I was not about to lose another sibling. I recognized my duty as a Third no matter

how much I despised Graff for bumping me along on my road to early adulthood.

And so I morphed completely into Dink Meeker. The other boys called me that because

they tired quickly of saying my full name, and Rose de Nose would have insisted on it anyways

because no one was allowed to have a more Jewish name than him. In any case, I didn't mind

Daniel Yitzchak Meekerman was a happy, laughing stranger who had been buried in Tzippy's

coffin. Dink Meeker is the stoic, serious, hard-working, independent boy everyone knows

but don't quite know, yet respect anyways because of a quiet success.

I spoke to Ender Wiggin recently, having just requested him from Rose. Although

many a Launchie has been treated poorly, something just burned me about the way they

treated Ender Wiggin. Maybe it's because he has such a lot of potential, yet Bonzo and

Rose just let it sit there and probably would have let it fester. Maybe it's because he's one of

those unlucky few who get purposely isolated by the teachers for God only knows why. Maybe

it's because he's one of the youngest kids in the school and needs some sort of guidance.

Most likely it's a mixture of all of that, coupled with the fact that he reminds me of

myself when I was younger. He hasn't had a happy childhood, and anyone can see he's being

forced to grow up just as fast as I was, if not more so because he got here at a younger age

than I did. He's here because of a sense of duty more than anything else – he wouldn't have

chosen to leave that sister of his behind just to come to battle school. Not to mention the

teachers are working to control him, to mold him into their perfect little soldier.

He asked why I stay even with the knowledge of what's going on, and I told him it was

because I love the games. It's true, even though I vowed not to play anymore. But I

hate them as well – playing games killed my sister, and the games killed a kid years ago, and

here we are, playing war games just so we can kill again later. And yet there's something so

exhilarating about winning a game using all your skills, watching your soldiers perform

flawlessly, just being able to _play_. But it all goes back to the teachers – we're _supposed_ to like

the games, they want us to like them – anything to distract us from the bigger picture.

I hate this control, but I've learned to adapt, and I bet Ender Wiggin will too.

Whatever happens, we're still going to belong to the teachers. We're like those little wind-up

soldiers – the teachers turn the knob on your back, and even though we don't know what

direction we're headed in till we're there, we still end up going where they want us to go.

Hopefully, the toy box won't get too full.


End file.
